Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama"
Summary: Uh, yeah.it's Satine's childhood.
Disclaimer: In the movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.
Reviews: Thanks so much to those who have, and I encourage those who haven't! (
February 25th, 1880
Nice, France
"Hey, that's no fair!" Toulouse cried as Satine looked down on his unhappy face, his fists on his hips and his lip out in a pout.
"Why not?" she demanded as she climbed down the side of the large unidentified tree she'd retreated to.
"Because I can't find you if you're up there!" he exclaimed, exasperated as she planted her feet on the ground and flattened her hair.
"Toulouse, the game is hide and seek, not hide and find." She told him sweetly. She began strolling back to the clearing. He rolled his eyes and followed.
"You're impossible."
"You just can't take being beaten by a girl." She replied, winking at him. He puffed out his chest.
"Can too. Plus, you didn't beat me."
"Whatever you say."
As they maneuvered through the nearly bare forest, Satine was regretting the decision to leave her shawl in the house. It was winter, on the cusp of spring, and this morning it had been in the mid fifties. But now, it was beginning to fade and feel like thirties. Toulouse noticed her shiver and like a gentlemen he strove to be, took his jacket off and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"Thanks, Toulouse." She said, smiling. In the past six months, they had developed into a daily escape: for both of them. Though Philip had been away much of the time and she jammed her door at night and he never returned, Satine was still on edge. Marguerite hid more and more in her room, quietly. She only came out once and a while and Satine would predict this and make herself scarce. Now, as they trampled the brush, she inspected Toulouse. She couldn't figure out what he was escaping, but she knew it was something because she felt a bond with him: an unspoken one.
Finally, the brush thinned and they were in the clearing.
"Race you to the pond!" she challenged.
"No way. Your legs are longer!" he protested, but his pace quickening
nonetheless.
"On your mark get set go!" she cried in one breath, and they were off, both of their legs working wildly and their arms flailing in that free, childish way. Toulouse was a few paces in front, but she soon cleared him by way of hurdling a rock, but soon he was neck and neck again. When they both crashed on the sand, she knew she had lost.
"Haha! I win!" he crowed, but it was short-lived. Satine tackled him and they rolled down in the sand eventually stopping, lying on their backs a foot from each other.
"You may be fast," she retorted as her breath returned, "But I can still whip you, Henri Toulouse Lautrec!" a clump of grass flew onto her, in response to being "full-named" as they referred to it.
"You may whip me, if you catch me first, Satine Isabeau DuBois!" he cackled. She huffed and rolled onto her side, propping herself on her elbow.
"What do you want to do?" she asked him. He copied her position.
"I want to paint Lillie Langtry in the buff."
"TOULOUSE!" another air-borne clump of grass, this time from Satine.
"Sorry."
"I meant now, you and me."
"Well."
"No."
"All right. How's about," he looked about, then looked at her. "TAG!" he shouted, grabbing her arm and running while screaming, "You're it!"
"You weasel!" she cackled hysterically as she got to her feet and ran
after him, awkwardly until she regained her footing. He was quite a runner,
but she knew how to catch him. When he rounded a corner, she climbed up a tree and swung down, landing in front of him. She latched on to his arm victoriously.
"Gotcha!" she shouted, but as she looked at his face, it contorted in
pain and he yelped. He caught himself and stood, massaging his arm.
"Oh my, I'm sorry Toulouse I didn't think I grabbed you that hard." She meekly said, her brow furrowed in worry.
"Don't worry, it's nothing." He assured her, not at all convincingly.
"Well, it must be something! You don't make that noise a lot!" she teased. He shook his head gravely, and his lisped voice serious.
"Satine, I mean it." She frowned at his sudden sincerity.
"So do I." she eyed him. "Roll up your sleeve."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Toulouse, you're being stupid! Just lift up your sleeve!"
"No. I'm it, so you better run."
"Not until I see your arm."
He tagged her. "Okay. You're it now."
"Show me!" she demanded, not quite pleading but bordering.
"Why? It doesn't matter to you!" he shouted, raising his voice in anger for the second time she had ever known him. The first was when she'd stole his clothes while he swam in his underclothes.
"Yes it does!" she grabbed his sleeve and with all her strength, ripped it upward, popping only one button. What she saw made her eyes stretch in diameter. His Mediterranean-tinted skin was mottled purple, not from her, and the flesh was slashed with long scars. Some old, some still in the form of scabs. After a moment or two, Toulouse yanked his arm away.
"There, are you happy?" he cried, tears streaming down his face. "I suppose you'd like to see my legs, and chest too? Huh? You want to see where my dad took a Bourbon bottle." His voice stuck and he ran towards the
clearing. Satine stood, stunned, consumed with guilt.
After a beat, she followed. She found him sitting on the edge of the clearing, crying into his hands. She stood behind him a moment, just looking. How could she have not known? Her own experience should have led her to know. She felt foolish, and slightly guilty. Up to this point, neither of them had gotten very personal. She never told him about her Papa, besides his name, not Marguerite and her own hurtful ways, and especially not about Philip. She had trouble thinking that to herself let alone saying it aloud.
"Go ahead, make fun! Nine year old boy crying!" he sobbed, much unlike a nine year old boy. Satine soon felt her own tears coming but held them back. She came down beside him and put her arm around him. Despite their differing ages, she was bigger than him and her arm fit perfectly.
"I'm so sorry, Toulouse." She whispered, her heart aching for him.
"Why? Why." He whimpered, no longer sobbing but trying to recover. She nestled into an Indian style position.
"Because I know how you feel." she stated softly. He froze, his bloodshot eyes staring at her.
"How? Your Papa?"
"No. My Mama. She's sick." She said, thinking how ridiculous she sounded. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and swallowed.
"All the time?"
"When she's not in her room. It's like," she tried to think of a similarity, "It's like that I can never do anything right. That she expects so much that I can't do. I think she hates me because I didn't die with my Papa." Toulouse was recovered and listening.
"Your Papa died?"
"Yeah, in a train crash. I was with him, but all I got was cut up." He looked at his hands.
"I'm sorry, Satine. Were you close?" the tear that fell could not be stopped.
"I think he's the only person that ever said he loved me." She murmured. She shut her eyes to stop crying, and when she opened them Toulouse was hugging her.
"I love you, Satine." Everything in Satine said to reply in the like, but she couldn't. Toulouse sensed this.
"It's okay." He assured her. "That's the first time I ever said that to anyone, except my mother." She smiled.
"I'm sorry, I just can't. . ."
"I know." He replied. He wiped his eyes again, and stood.
"Wow, look at us! A bunch of babies sitting in the forest crying! Sheesh, what would Lillie Langtry think of me now!" Satine smiled. He was instilling his always-working interjection of odd humor.
"Same thing she'd think any other time," she remarked, returning to her feet. "Who is that foolish little boy?" and all that filtered through the forest was their laughter, overshadowing their tears.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's Note: A tiny, tiny chapter, but I'm working on it, I promise! ( I'll have something soon! Thanks for all who reviewed! Stay tuned..
-K-
Summary: Uh, yeah.it's Satine's childhood.
Disclaimer: In the movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.
Reviews: Thanks so much to those who have, and I encourage those who haven't! (
February 25th, 1880
Nice, France
"Hey, that's no fair!" Toulouse cried as Satine looked down on his unhappy face, his fists on his hips and his lip out in a pout.
"Why not?" she demanded as she climbed down the side of the large unidentified tree she'd retreated to.
"Because I can't find you if you're up there!" he exclaimed, exasperated as she planted her feet on the ground and flattened her hair.
"Toulouse, the game is hide and seek, not hide and find." She told him sweetly. She began strolling back to the clearing. He rolled his eyes and followed.
"You're impossible."
"You just can't take being beaten by a girl." She replied, winking at him. He puffed out his chest.
"Can too. Plus, you didn't beat me."
"Whatever you say."
As they maneuvered through the nearly bare forest, Satine was regretting the decision to leave her shawl in the house. It was winter, on the cusp of spring, and this morning it had been in the mid fifties. But now, it was beginning to fade and feel like thirties. Toulouse noticed her shiver and like a gentlemen he strove to be, took his jacket off and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"Thanks, Toulouse." She said, smiling. In the past six months, they had developed into a daily escape: for both of them. Though Philip had been away much of the time and she jammed her door at night and he never returned, Satine was still on edge. Marguerite hid more and more in her room, quietly. She only came out once and a while and Satine would predict this and make herself scarce. Now, as they trampled the brush, she inspected Toulouse. She couldn't figure out what he was escaping, but she knew it was something because she felt a bond with him: an unspoken one.
Finally, the brush thinned and they were in the clearing.
"Race you to the pond!" she challenged.
"No way. Your legs are longer!" he protested, but his pace quickening
nonetheless.
"On your mark get set go!" she cried in one breath, and they were off, both of their legs working wildly and their arms flailing in that free, childish way. Toulouse was a few paces in front, but she soon cleared him by way of hurdling a rock, but soon he was neck and neck again. When they both crashed on the sand, she knew she had lost.
"Haha! I win!" he crowed, but it was short-lived. Satine tackled him and they rolled down in the sand eventually stopping, lying on their backs a foot from each other.
"You may be fast," she retorted as her breath returned, "But I can still whip you, Henri Toulouse Lautrec!" a clump of grass flew onto her, in response to being "full-named" as they referred to it.
"You may whip me, if you catch me first, Satine Isabeau DuBois!" he cackled. She huffed and rolled onto her side, propping herself on her elbow.
"What do you want to do?" she asked him. He copied her position.
"I want to paint Lillie Langtry in the buff."
"TOULOUSE!" another air-borne clump of grass, this time from Satine.
"Sorry."
"I meant now, you and me."
"Well."
"No."
"All right. How's about," he looked about, then looked at her. "TAG!" he shouted, grabbing her arm and running while screaming, "You're it!"
"You weasel!" she cackled hysterically as she got to her feet and ran
after him, awkwardly until she regained her footing. He was quite a runner,
but she knew how to catch him. When he rounded a corner, she climbed up a tree and swung down, landing in front of him. She latched on to his arm victoriously.
"Gotcha!" she shouted, but as she looked at his face, it contorted in
pain and he yelped. He caught himself and stood, massaging his arm.
"Oh my, I'm sorry Toulouse I didn't think I grabbed you that hard." She meekly said, her brow furrowed in worry.
"Don't worry, it's nothing." He assured her, not at all convincingly.
"Well, it must be something! You don't make that noise a lot!" she teased. He shook his head gravely, and his lisped voice serious.
"Satine, I mean it." She frowned at his sudden sincerity.
"So do I." she eyed him. "Roll up your sleeve."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Toulouse, you're being stupid! Just lift up your sleeve!"
"No. I'm it, so you better run."
"Not until I see your arm."
He tagged her. "Okay. You're it now."
"Show me!" she demanded, not quite pleading but bordering.
"Why? It doesn't matter to you!" he shouted, raising his voice in anger for the second time she had ever known him. The first was when she'd stole his clothes while he swam in his underclothes.
"Yes it does!" she grabbed his sleeve and with all her strength, ripped it upward, popping only one button. What she saw made her eyes stretch in diameter. His Mediterranean-tinted skin was mottled purple, not from her, and the flesh was slashed with long scars. Some old, some still in the form of scabs. After a moment or two, Toulouse yanked his arm away.
"There, are you happy?" he cried, tears streaming down his face. "I suppose you'd like to see my legs, and chest too? Huh? You want to see where my dad took a Bourbon bottle." His voice stuck and he ran towards the
clearing. Satine stood, stunned, consumed with guilt.
After a beat, she followed. She found him sitting on the edge of the clearing, crying into his hands. She stood behind him a moment, just looking. How could she have not known? Her own experience should have led her to know. She felt foolish, and slightly guilty. Up to this point, neither of them had gotten very personal. She never told him about her Papa, besides his name, not Marguerite and her own hurtful ways, and especially not about Philip. She had trouble thinking that to herself let alone saying it aloud.
"Go ahead, make fun! Nine year old boy crying!" he sobbed, much unlike a nine year old boy. Satine soon felt her own tears coming but held them back. She came down beside him and put her arm around him. Despite their differing ages, she was bigger than him and her arm fit perfectly.
"I'm so sorry, Toulouse." She whispered, her heart aching for him.
"Why? Why." He whimpered, no longer sobbing but trying to recover. She nestled into an Indian style position.
"Because I know how you feel." she stated softly. He froze, his bloodshot eyes staring at her.
"How? Your Papa?"
"No. My Mama. She's sick." She said, thinking how ridiculous she sounded. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and swallowed.
"All the time?"
"When she's not in her room. It's like," she tried to think of a similarity, "It's like that I can never do anything right. That she expects so much that I can't do. I think she hates me because I didn't die with my Papa." Toulouse was recovered and listening.
"Your Papa died?"
"Yeah, in a train crash. I was with him, but all I got was cut up." He looked at his hands.
"I'm sorry, Satine. Were you close?" the tear that fell could not be stopped.
"I think he's the only person that ever said he loved me." She murmured. She shut her eyes to stop crying, and when she opened them Toulouse was hugging her.
"I love you, Satine." Everything in Satine said to reply in the like, but she couldn't. Toulouse sensed this.
"It's okay." He assured her. "That's the first time I ever said that to anyone, except my mother." She smiled.
"I'm sorry, I just can't. . ."
"I know." He replied. He wiped his eyes again, and stood.
"Wow, look at us! A bunch of babies sitting in the forest crying! Sheesh, what would Lillie Langtry think of me now!" Satine smiled. He was instilling his always-working interjection of odd humor.
"Same thing she'd think any other time," she remarked, returning to her feet. "Who is that foolish little boy?" and all that filtered through the forest was their laughter, overshadowing their tears.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's Note: A tiny, tiny chapter, but I'm working on it, I promise! ( I'll have something soon! Thanks for all who reviewed! Stay tuned..
-K-